


Chinese Food

by AquaFontem



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2015-04-17
Packaged: 2018-03-23 10:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3764398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaFontem/pseuds/AquaFontem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been ten minutes. </p>
<p>His phone is still silent; the screen desolate, no matter how convulsively he clicks the home button.  </p>
<p>He is fidgeting in the back of the cab, glaring at the back of the driver’s head as if it could will him to go faster, praying that Molly Hooper can hold on until he gets there.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Or when Sherlock rushes over to Molly's in a perceived emergency, only to discover her situation isn't so dire after all...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chinese Food

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ageeess ago for the Sherlolly Writing Challenge 2014 (there’s a lil’ hint for how long it’s been), but I decided to transfer some of the stuff that has previously just been on Tumblr (AquaFontem ;P) over here. So naturally, this fluffy little thing would be the first. 
> 
> I would like to do a few more, however, so please do send me a prompt if there's anything you'd like to see! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I hope you are having an awesome day!

It’s been ten minutes.

 

His phone is still silent; the screen desolate, no matter how convulsively he clicks the home button. 

 

He is fidgeting in the back of the cab, glaring at the back of the driver’s head as if it could will him to go faster, praying that Molly Hooper can hold on until he gets there.

 

He was composing when he got the text, but the first few bars of Chopin’s Nocturne broke his concentration immediately, something that happens every time her ringtone sounds.

 

It had been vague, the message, summoning him to her flat without preamble, the insipid smiley face that she usually signed off with alarmingly absent. He’d frowned at his phone, slightly concerned to receive that from a woman who only texted him to let him know what time she’d be bringing a tongue round.

 

**It’s urgent.**

He was out the door before he’d finished reading, pulling on his Belstaff without bothering to remove his robe, as he threw himself into the first taxi he saw.

 

Sherlock eyes the road in front of them, frustration coursing through him at the obtrusive red brake lights that are abundant before him, forcing his own cab to ground to a halt.

 

‘Looks like we might be stuck here for a while, mate,’ the cabbie swivels around to call through the partition, and Sherlock tries not to bristle at the geniality in his voice, reminding himself that the man has no idea of the seriousness of the situation.

 

He doesn’t reply, his mind working furiously to discern exactly how far away he is from Molly’s, before he makes his decision, lurching forwards to chuck a handful of notes into the front.

 

The cabbie protests, but he shuts up when he realises that Sherlock’s paid almost three times the fare, and watches his passenger as he starts running down the middle of the road, his coat billowing dramatically behind him.

 

******

 

He’s out of breath from running when he reaches her flat, but he doesn’t rest when he sees her darkened hallway, jamming his spare key into the lock.

 

Even though every atom of his body is telling him to hurry up, he edges towards her living room, aware that the element of surprise could be invaluable if (he hopes it is merely an if) he comes face to face with an intruder.

 

A flickering television sends stripes of colour across Molly’s burgundy carpet, and he has to force down the panic when it occurs to him that this is the same television that he spent numerous nights watching with her: a privilege to him now that it could never happen again.

 

He formulated a thousand backup plans in the taxi should he find the flat empty, but he tells himself now that he will have no need for them, because that is the only way he will be able to finish this trek into her home.

 

His frame hugs the doorway of the sitting room, but he pauses before he takes a tentative step over the threshold, letting his eyes adjust to the relative darkness inside, broken only by the silent face of the newsreader on the TV screen in the corner.

 

There is no sign of Molly.

 

Sherlock ruffles his hair in frustration, finding himself in the middle of the room without any conscious effort, checking the windows for signs of forced entry, the carpet for mud residue from foreign shoes, disturbed dust clinging to bookcases and the coffee table: finding nothing.

 

‘Sherlock?!’

 

He nearly falls over, whipping around wildly as his eyes lock on the figure who had emerged from the kitchen, matching the exact description of his pathologist.

 

_But that doesn’t make any sense…_

‘Sherlock! You can’t just sneak into someone’s flat! You nearly gave me a heart attack!’ She marches over until she is craning her neck to look at him, while he tries to figure out if she’s real or not.

 

She does that sometimes, springs up in his mind palace, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d brought her in tonight to distract himself from the possibility of losing her.

 

He hasn’t said a single word, his face etched with a stricken expression as she stares up at him, her annoyance burgeoning.

 

‘You scared me,’ she hisses, poking his chest to get his attention, snapping him back to reality as it confirms that she is the living, breathing Molly, rather than a figment of his imagination.

 

‘ _I_ scared you?’ His worry is displaced by irritation, as it occurs to him that he has been brought here in such haste under false pretences. ‘ _You_ said it was urgent!’

 

‘Well, the Chinese was getting cold!’ He blinks, wondering if he heard her correctly.

 

‘Chinese?’ Sherlock is utterly confused, and he hates every moment of it.

 

‘Yeah, I ordered too much,’ she says bashfully, her gaze focused on a spot just above his shoulder, ‘and I was going to watch some Monty Python, and you told me yesterday that you hadn’t seen any of their films, plus you finished your case today and I know you haven’t eaten-’

 

She’s babbling, and he finds himself feeling more affection towards her with every word. For a man who experiences less emotion in a year than most experience in a week, it’s a lot to take in, and he concludes that the best thing to do is to stop her immediately, cease the words that are making him more human than he ever deserved to be.

 

So he kisses her, his mouth sealing hers as he pulls her closer, wrapping his arms around her slim body, as he should have done the moment he saw that she was all right.

 

Molly is frozen for a minute before she responds and buries her hands in his hair; her touch soft on the skin of his neck, calming the flush that his panic had created there.

 

Reluctantly, they separate, but he refuses to let her step away, keeping her close as he brushes a strand of her hair behind her ear.

 

‘Sher-Sherlock,’ she stutters, and he traces the blush on her cheeks while he collects himself.

 

His brain had imploded on impact, and he knows it will take him at least a day to file away the new sensory information that he’d accrued.

 

But in that moment, he is completely at peace, his quarrelsome mind quieting as she permeates every layer (much later, he’ll decide that this is what love feels like).

 

‘You were worried, weren’t you?’ She asks tentatively, her head tipped slightly to the side as she watches him.

 

Sherlock nods, pressing his lips to the palm of her hand when he finally relinquishes his grip on her waist.

 

‘Yes, Molly.’ He pauses, forcing himself to look her in the eye because he needs her to believe him, to trust that he is being sincere. ‘I would be… quite perturbed if anything were to happen to you.’

 

She raises an eyebrow.

 

‘Perturbed?’ The corner of her mouth gives away her amusement, and he quickly learns that Molly Hooper quite enjoys teasing him.

 

‘Fine,’ he scowls. ‘Annoyed?’ She takes a step away, and he murmurs his disapproval. ‘Irritated.’

 

Four steps this time, and she is in danger of crossing into the kitchen, even though the full smile on her face suggests that she isn’t as concerned about this as he is.

 

‘Bothered.’

 

Her back hits the kitchen table, so he follows her, reaching out just as she slips to the other side of the room.

 

‘Saddened?’

 

His voice is wholly hopeful, placing his hands on the table between them, trying and failing to pin her in place with his eyes.

 

‘Distressed.’ She grins at him, her eyes sparkling, but he finds himself less disappointed as she begins to back away again when he notices the direction in which she is headed. ‘Very very angry.’ She hits her bedroom door with a thud, and he is in front of her in seconds, bracing his arms either side of her head. ‘Did I pass?’ He asks, his voice barely audible.

 

She bites her lip, feigning consideration as her nimble fingers push his coat to the floor.

 

‘Only just,’ she replies, drawing him in by his scarf to kiss him again. He reaches blindly for the door handle, and they fall back into her room, her legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he slams the door shut behind them.

 

When they eventually resurface, the Chinese is cold.


End file.
